


you're my favorite place to run

by fairytiger



Category: Emma Approved
Genre: Backstory, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 15:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8452597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytiger/pseuds/fairytiger
Summary: Alex is twelve years old when the new neighbors move in.





	

**Author's Note:**

> We never got adequate backstory for these two. I tried to fix that.

Alex is twelve years old when the new neighbors move in.

The U-Haul pulls into the driveway next door, and he watches from his bedroom window as hired movers heft antique couches, china cabinets, a piano. 

_Let there be kids_ , Alex wishes, clutching his basketball.

His brother hasn’t been much in the way of company this summer. John’s three years older, sprouting the barest hint of facial hair, and too busy standing in front of the mirror watching it grow to shoot hoops. 

_Just one kid. Doesn’t even have to be my age._

The movers pull out matching pink poster beds with white canopies.

Maybe he should have been more specific.

x

“That poor man, raising those girls all by himself. It’s so tragic,” Alex’s mother sighs at dinner as she unpacks the Chinese takeout boxes. 

John doesn’t lift his eyes from his Gameboy. Alex flicks an onion off of his chow mein. 

“The older one’s just about your age, John. And Alex, the youngest is going into 3rd grade. You’ll look out for her.” 

She says it like she’s seen the future, like it’s a given. 

Alex flicks another onion. 

“I’m glad you two are getting some new friends.”

x

They take over a casserole later, something frozen his mom had found in the back of the freezer, and she puts on her helpful nurse voice when a man answers the door.

He looks older, almost as old as Alex’s grandfather but not quite. Maybe it’s just the handkerchief he’s clutching that ages him, or the oversized sweater that’s too heavy for summer. 

From behind his mom, Alex can just barely see into the foyer. All of the houses in the development look the same on the outside, and the inside is just a mirrored version of their own. There’s a winding staircase, hardwood with plush white carpet, and at the top of the landing, he sees a pair of patent leather shoes tapping a nervous rhythm. 

Alex tips forward on the balls of his feet, trying to catch a glimpse of who they belong to, but then they’re being politely shooed away with a “yes, yes, thank you very much, but I’m afraid a breeze is coming in, awfully drafty for August, isn’t it?”

x

John goes over the next day with mail that got delivered to their house by mistake. He stays for dinner, the longest he’s been away from a screen in months.

“So?” Alex asks later that night, doing homework at the kitchen table while John grabs a glass of water.

“So, what?”

“What are they like?”

John shrugs.

“I don’t know. They’re girls.”

“I knew that much.”

“Go over and see for yourself then.”

The phone rings, and Alex glances at the clock. 7:30, right on schedule.

John pushes off from the counter, heading upstairs.

“Don’t you want to talk to him?”

“Nope.”

Alex picks up the phone on the third ring.

“Hey Dad.”

x

They moved in five years ago.

It was a new construction at the time, the neighborhood a new development, new new new. It’s the only house Alex really remembers living in. He remembers his dad attaching the basketball hoop to the garage, the hours he and John would practicing free throws, how he’d fall asleep to the steady thwack of the ball hitting the pavement.

x

It’s two weeks before he and the new girl speak.

He’s successfully avoided anything to do with going outside, spending most of his summer days watching Top Gun when his mother’s not home and baseball when she is. 

“Have you moved at all today?” she asks from behind the couch one Friday evening, the phone pressed to her ear, on hold for pizza.

He shrugs.

“Sure. Had to make popcorn.”

She clicks off the TV at the bottom of the seventh inning.

“Go outside. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

“You mean when dinner’s _here_.”

She stares at him. 

He goes outside.

He’s shooting free throws, a pathetic 12 for 30, when he hears the garage open from next door, the click of a bike being walked down the driveway. He looks before he can remember that he doesn’t care, that he’s not interested in meeting the new neighbors because as far as he’s concerned, everything about this situation is temporary.

He sees the shoes first, the same black patent leather that looks like they’ve never seen a scuff, the white socks that have probably never met a stain. And then there’s the girl wearing them, with her long black hair in two braids, not a strand out of place, and a dress with too much lace.

Her eyes dart up from the handlebars to meet his, and he looks away, dribbles and shoots. He misses.

She rides down the sidewalk to the end of the street and back, then does lazy circles in the driveway, before riding out again in the other direction.

He’s 13 for 33 when he hears the bike stop behind him, followed by a quiet “hi.”

Alex pretends he doesn’t hear her and sets up for another shot. 

“Hi,” she says, a little louder this time.

“Hey.”

“Can I play?”

He stills the ball in his hands, turning around to face her.

“Umm…”

He’s saved by the pizza truck pulling up to the curb. Alex hands him the twenty his mom gave him and runs inside.

x

Emma is nine years old when she officially meets the boy next door, and it’s not by coincidence.

His days are predictable; up early before the worst of the summer heat to shoot hoops off of the garage, inside for most of the day, and back out after dinner. At first, Emma ignored him, and when the smack of the ball against the backboard was too loud to ignore, she rode her bike around the block. And while she rode her bike, she watched him.

It’s the watching that makes her fail to notice the stick on the sidewalk one afternoon, the one that she hits too fast, sending her head over handlebars. Thanks to her helmet and matching knee pads, it’s her hands that bear the brunt of the impact. She rolls onto her side, hissing in pain, when she hears the sound of sneakers running toward her. 

“Hey.”

The boy crouches over her, backlit by the afternoon sun, his face all shadows and sharp angles that look a lot like worry.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, bracing herself on her elbows to sit up, fists clenched.

“Let me see,” he says, holding out a hand to examine hers. She unfurls her fingers, wincing at the sight of raw skin sewn with gravel. 

“That’s bad.”

“I’m fine,” she says again, weaker this time, tears stinging at the corner of her eyes.

“Hold on. Just stay here, okay?”

She nods and he’s up and off. When he comes back a minute later, he has antiseptic in one hand and Spider-Man bandages in the other.

“It was all we had,” he says, shrugging in apology.

“I like Spider-Man,” she spits back, defensive, even as he’s helping her pick the loose pebbles from her hand.

“Did you see the movie?” He sprays the antiseptic on her palm and she winces.

“No. My dad said it was too scary.”

The boy nods, smoothing the bandage across her palm. 

“I was scared.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell my brother.”

She smiles, and the sting doesn’t hurt as much the second time. 

“There,” he says when the second bandage is in place, examining his work. “Try not to wash your hands.” “Eww.”

“You know what I mean.” He stands and holds out a hand to help her up. It’s sweaty and warm, chalky from the basketball. 

“I’m Alex, by the way.”

“I’m Emma. Emma Woodhouse.”

The boy--Alex--hands her the package of bandaids.

“You keep ‘em.”

His mom calls him for dinner and he tucks the basketball under his arm, jogging back to his house before she can say “thank you”.

x

“Where’s your dad?” Emma asks one afternoon. 

Alex dribbles and shoots, the ball slicing cleanly through the net. 

“Florida.”

A breeze rolls over Emma’s bare shoulders, already a little too cool for August, and she tucks her knees to her chest. She ignores the book sitting next to her, content to watch him play. If it bothers him, he’s never said so; she thinks he might even like the attention.

“How come?”

He shrugs, frowning.

“It’s hard to explain.”

Emma picks at a leaf of grass. He doesn’t ask her about her mom because he already knows.

“Do you wanna shoot?” he asks instead.

“Me?”

His mouth quirks up.

“Do you see anyone else out here? C’mon.”

He bounces the ball to her, telling her where to put her feet, how to shoot with her wrists instead of her arms. She misses her first try, but he just bounces it to her again, and again and again until Izzie tells her to come inside. 

“Good job,” he says with a wave. “See you at school.”

“See ya,” she says, smiling, because the new school doesn’t seem so bad now that she has a friend there.

x

It’s the first day of school, and Alex pretends that he doesn’t know her.

He doesn't feel particularly good about this, but he also feels like he doesn't have a choice. He doesn’t know how to explain to his friends that he hung out with a third grader all summer and taught her how to shoot a free throw and that she was actually pretty good at it.

She finds him at recess with his friends, her hair in one long braid instead of two, with a friendly smile and a “Hi, Alex!” that’s impossibly bright and brave.

His friends look from her to Alex, eyebrows raised. Alex frowns.

“What do you want?” 

She flinches, but her smile remains. 

“Nothing. Just...okay, bye.”

One of his buddies elbows him as she walks away.

“Who’s she?”

“Just my neighbor,” he mumbles, nudging the soccer ball with his foot. “Come on, let’s play.”

x

“Alex is at the door,” Izzie says, poking her head into her room that night.

Emma shrugs, pressing her pencil onto her paper so hard that the sharpened tip breaks.

“So?”

She can feel her sister watching her.

“Everything go okay today?”

“Mhmm.”

Izzie sighs.

“I’ll tell him you’re busy.”

x

When Alex can’t find her at recess the next day, he imagines that she’s either in the library or faking sick in the nurse’s office, and he feels like dirt. 

He spots her at lunch, at the end of one of the long tables, alone. His friends wave him over and he sighs, making up his mind.

“Hey,” he says, taking a seat across from her. She doesn’t look up as she takes a bite of her sandwich.

“Want my pudding cup?” 

He tosses it to her. She lets it fall to the ground.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? It was the first day and you just surprised me is all. I wasn’t--”

Emma throws her half-eaten lunch in the trash.

“Don’t pretend to be my friend, Alex Knightley,” she says, grabbing her backpack. “You’d make a crappy real one anyway.”

x

They don’t talk after that.

x

Alex promotes from sixth grade to middle school the same day John gets his driver’s license. Their mom takes them out to dinner to celebrate, letting John drive there and back. They pull into their driveway just as the Woodhouse girls are walking their bikes back into theirs.

“Can we go get ice cream with them?” John asks, unwilling to let go of the wheel.

“Ask Mr. Woodhouse first.”

Alex watches the negotiation from the passenger seat: Mr. Woodhouse looking at the car like the only thing keeping it together is his worry, Izzie pleading with her eyes, Emma kicking at the grass with indifference.

John somehow manages to win out. 

“Backseat,” he tells Alex as he opens the driver’s side door.

“But--”

“Or you can not go at all.”

Alex looks at Emma, already buckled and glaring out the window, and thinks that might be a better option.

It’s supposed to be a short drive, but John takes the long way to downtown, the windows rolled down, radio blaring. Emma’s pressed herself as close to the door as she can without falling out.

Alex should have just stayed home.

They order a round of sundaes and clink spoons, toasting to the end of the year, the beginning of summer and freedom.

Emma still won’t look at him.

When John and Izzie start talking about finals and student government elections, Alex spills a bit of his melted ice cream on the table, and nudges Emma’s foot. 

She shoots him a look. “What?”

It’s hard writing upside down, but he manages to scrawl out “sorry” with his finger.

She stares at the word, pursing her lips, trying not to smile.

He runs a finger through the word, drips more ice cream, and draws a smiley face with a question mark.

She looks up at him and nods.

He smiles for the both of them.

x

It’s different that summer.

Maybe it’s John Knightley having a car and looking for any excuse to drive it. The movies, the mall, the beach; the deal with their father is that Izzie can only go if Emma does. She doesn’t like the idea of playing unwanted sidekick, but Alex is always there too, and four wheels are sturdier than three.

Emma has never had friends who were boys, but it’s not really that different. Or maybe it’s just that _they’re_ different. Alex doesn’t act like he’s thirteen and he doesn’t treat her like she’s ten, and she doesn’t even have to try to do the same. It just...is.

On the 4th of July, they four of them walk to the the nearby park to watch fireworks. Izzie goes to get kettle corn and tells Emma to go with her, and it’s the first time she’s really been alone with her sister all summer.

“They’re pretty cool, right?” Izzie says after a minute. “The boys, I mean.”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“So you’re okay with us all hanging out? A lot?”

“Sure.” Emma looks at her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Izzie shrugs.

“I don’t know. I just...wanted to make sure.”

“Okay?”

They divvy up the kettle corn into two bags. Izzie sits next to John, cross-legged, their knees touching, and Emma thinks _oh_.

She takes the empty spot next to Alex, pulling her knees to her chest, and offers him the bag. 

“Thanks. Coke?”

He hands her a cold can with a smile and grabs a handful of kettle corn as the sky opens up red. 

x

John and Izzie are officially official by the time school starts.

They hold hands in the front seat while John drives them all to school, happy to make three separate stops if it means more time with his girlfriend.

Alex thinks he could solve all of his problems if he told Mr. Woodhouse that his daughter’s boyfriend’s hands were not firmly at 10 and 2.

Boyfriend. John is someone’s _boyfriend_. 

If misery loves company, Emma is his constant companion. She frowns every time their siblings so much as look at each other. It’s weird, and it makes _them_ weird, and Alex wishes it didn’t. He should be excited about junior high, about finally having a locker instead of a cubby, new friends and new girls he didn’t go to school with before. 

He just wants it to be summer again. The beginning of summer, before it got weird.

x

“It’s weird,” he tells her. 

Emma bounces the ball a couple of times and shoots. It swivels around the rim before landing cleanly through the net.

“What is?”

“Being at a different school.”

“But it’s mostly the same people, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, twirling the ball on his finger to show off. “Still.”

She nods.

“I know what you mean.”

“You’re smart,” he says suddenly, running to the hoop for a layup. “You could just move up a few grades, right?”

“What? To 7th grade?”

“Sure. Why not?”

He passes the ball to her, a corner of his mouth quirked up, and Emma ducks her head so he can’t see the pink flushing her cheeks.

“I’m not ready for Algebra,” is all she says.

x

Alex’s mom usually works graveyard shifts at the hospital, which means there’s usually money on the counter in the morning for lunch and more money that night for dinner with a note says, _At least order a salad with the pizza. Do your homework. Love you both._

These kind of nights used to mean playing Nintendo with John until their eyes burned, ordering extra garlic bread instead of salad, and watching things on cable that were violent and scary and awesome. 

That was before John was someone’s boyfriend.

Now, the girls come over as soon as they’re done with homework. There’s still pizza and cable, but nothing that will scare Emma and no garlic bread because that would interfere with John and Izzie’s faces being stuck together.

Which they are. All the time.

Alex isn’t a kissing expert, because that would require experience and he has exactly zero. And it’s never bothered him, mostly because kissing has to be an option before you can really say you’re missing it. But the other day, a girl in his biology class dropped a pencil and when she bent over to pick it up, he saw a bright strip of pink underwear peek out from her denim skirt.

He didn’t hate it.

So his brother is kissing girls--one girl, anyway--and he’s kissing her all the time which is fine, except for the part where Alex actually has to turn up the volume on the TV to drown out the sound of their mouths smacking against each other.

“Ugh, thank you,” Emma says, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl between them.

“Do you mind?” John calls from the couch, out of breath.

Alex doesn’t look at him as he shoots back, “Do you?”

John whispers something about his room to Izzie and they take off upstairs, giggling the whole way. Alex hears the door slam shut and then it’s just him and Emma and a movie that no one was ever really watching.

“Sorry,” Alex says, unsure what exactly he’s apologizing for. 

“I’m never kissing anyone,” Emma declares.

He laughs.

“Yeah?”

“I’m serious. It’s disgusting. Who even came up with the idea?” 

“I think it was probably mutual.”

“No, I mean,” she clicks the TV off and turns toward him, winding up. “In the history of the world. Who decided that a great way to show that you like someone is to stick your tongue in their mouth? Do you know how gross mouths are? We eat and cough and throw up with our mouths. They’re just these breeding grounds for bacteria and--”

“Okay, stop. I got it. No kissing for you anytime soon.”

“Never,” she says again, emphatically.

x

Emma’s thirteenth birthday party is the day before Halloween, but the invitation--heavy cardstock with gold lettering--makes it clear that this is _not_ a costume party. It’s cucumber sandwiches and macarons and white paper lanterns strung around the porch and very very Emma. 

Alex feels dumb in his slacks and tie, but if anything he’s underdressed. John’s wearing a blazer--Alex didn’t even know he owned a blazer--and Izzie’s in the dress she wore to homecoming. Emma’s in a pale pink dress that shimmers gold when it catches the light, her hair loose down her back instead of a braid, and Alex thinks she might be wearing lip gloss. 

And she’s happy, maybe the happiest Alex has ever seen her. 

She dances with her friends to a new CD her sister gave her, songs they know by heart, including the choreography. She blows out thirteen candles on a three-tiered cake that’s mint green and tastes like chocolate and lavender. She rips open the flimsy wrapping of his present and beams at him, clutching the Spider-Man DVD to her chest. He smiles and presses a finger to his lips to say _shh_.

It’s a pretty good party.

John stays to help clean up, and Alex could walk home without him, but he stays, too. He’s taking down the lanterns, balanced on a patio chair, when Emma finds him outside. 

“Thanks for helping,” she says. She’s in her pajamas, ready for the sleepover portion of the evening. Her face looks cleaner, shinier, and Alex realizes that she must have been wearing makeup earlier. He wonders when she started doing that.

“Sure. Did you have fun?” 

She nods, glancing at him, then over her shoulder, then back at him.

“You okay?” he asks, stepping down off the chair while folding the lantern flat. 

“Yeah, just...ugh.” She sighs, dramatic and annoyed, and steps toward him, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“It’s a dare, okay?”

And before Alex can ask, she kisses him.

It’s less than a second, a kiss in the most basic sense of the word, her lips pressed tightly against his unsuspecting own. But it still feels like an eternity, long enough for Alex to feel the space where her nose bumps his cheek and to register that yes, she is wearing lip gloss and that it tastes like raspberry. 

She pulls away, and pats him on the shoulder.

“Thanks.”

And then she runs inside.

x

When Alex gets his license, no one’s there to celebrate. 

His mom is at work--always at work, it feels like, now that John’s away at college.

He’d called his dad the week before, on a whim and foolish hope, knowing what his answer would be before he even asked.

_I wish I could, kid, but I just can’t get away, not at the last minute. But hey, getting your license, that’s a big deal. I’m proud of you._

So he dropped his mom off at work and drove to the DMV by himself and prayed they wouldn’t ask how he got there. 

He gets a perfect score, and drives away with his hands drumming at the wheel. When he turns on to his street, it’s Emma’s driveway he pulls into.

“Hello, sir,” he says when Mr. Woodhouse answers, looking like he just woke up from a nap. Then again, that’s how he always looks. For as close as the four of them had become, Alex’s direct interactions with Mr. Woodhouse were minimal. He’d say hello when he and John came to pick up the girls and they’d exchange some kind of conversation about the weather, usually about how bad it was, even in California, even in the middle of April. Mr. Woodhouse would tell them to drive extremely carefully and to be home by 9:00, and then he’d pretend not to watch through the curtains as they drove away. 

“Is Emma home?”

“No, I’m afraid she’s not. She has...” he pulls a day planner from the pocket of his sweater. “Something called ‘pep squad’ today.”

“Right,” Alex says, his whole body deflating. “Right, I knew that. Sorry, I just...I got my driver’s license today and I thought maybe she’d want to go with me to get dinner or see a movie or something. If it was okay with you, of course, but I guess it doesn’t matter, so. Sorry, again.”

He turns to leave, feeling stupid and, more than that, mad. Mad that his mom has to work so much and that John is gone and that his dad, his fucking dad--

“Alexander,” Mr. Woodhouse calls when he’s halfway down the driveway, motioning him back. “Do you play chess?”

x

It’s the night before Emma’s first day of high school and there’s a lot to do. Her outfit needs accessorizing, she needs to cross reference her class schedule with the campus map, and if they’re going to force her to cover her textbooks, then she’s going to make collages out of the boring brown butcher paper.

But she’s not doing any of that. Instead, she’s rubbing her sister’s back as Izzie cries into her pillow. 

Izzie hardly ever came home for the weekend. Even with campus so close, she was happy there, with her friends, her classes, with John. She’d had her choice of schools and chose him first.

“I can go anywhere,” she’d told Emma. “Why not go with him?” 

_This is why_ , Emma thinks, looking at her sister, curled up on her bed and looking so, so small.

“He said we were getting too serious,” Izzie sniffs. “That we were in college and that he didn’t want me to be tied down, which is such bullshit, because what he really means is that he doesn’t want to be tied down so he can fuck sorority girls.”

Emma isn’t equipped for this, barely fifteen, no boyfriends and exactly one kiss to her name, and that was a dare.

(Even if it wasn’t terrible, she still has no interest in making it a habit)

Izzie keeps talking, pausing to cry, then talks some more while Emma just traces her back with her palm. She knows she’s not the person Izzie needs right now; that person’s been gone a long time. But she’s the one who’s here, and when she gets up to stand, Izzie clutches at her wrist.

“I’m just going to make you some tea,” Emma says. “Okay?”

Izzie nods.

They sleep in the same bed that night, and Emma doesn’t fall asleep until her sister does. 

x

It’s the first day of Alex’s senior year and he’d made plans. He was going to give Emma a ride to school and they were going to stop for coffee on the way, the kind that’s more whipped cream and sugar than anything else. His name was going to be first on the signup sheet for varsity tryouts, and he was going to go off campus for lunch to the mexican food stand where they put fries in the burritos.

And then John ruined everything.

He knows before anyone tells him. He’s practicing free throws the night before when he sees Izzie’s car pull in next door. When he waves, she ignores him, and he can feel everything shift out of place.

He barely sees Emma the next day, except when he passes by her locker on his way to Calculus. The smile she gives him when their eyes meet is sad and knowing, and he really, really hates his brother.

x

“Can we talk?”

Alex stands on her front porch that night, still in his school clothes, plus a hoodie to ward off the unusual September chill. He looks guilty, and Emma feels it too, a small sense of betrayal to their siblings.

“Dad’s asleep.”

“Out here? Just a walk around the block.”

She glances upstairs, then nods, pulling a jacket from the coat closet over her pajamas.

They walk in silence, eyes on their shoes, and it’s minutes until he finally says something.

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“John’s an asshole.”

Emma wants to emphatically agree, but that seems rude, so she nods instead.

“I don’t…” he sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I don’t want things to change.”

“I think they already have.”

“Between them, yeah. But not us. We’re still friends.”

She laughs, but there’s no joy in it.

“Come on.”

“You don’t think we are?”

She didn’t know what to think. Sometimes it felt like they were, when he’d come over to play chess with her dad and then stay for dinner, plus a movie if it wasn’t a school night. When John and Izzie were home for the summer, they were a unit, a package deal. But now?

“I think,” she says finally. “That if they hadn’t gotten together, we never would have hung out.”

“Emma--”

“I’m not mad about it. It’s just the truth. I’m always going to be the youngest and that automatically makes me the one tagging along.”

“We made you feel that way?”

“No. _You_ never did.” 

They’re back at the split between the two driveways, and Alex tugs on her sleeve to stop her.

“I was really excited about this year. I like that we’re at the same school. I want to be able to say hi and give you a ride in the morning or the afternoon if you need it.”

“You don’t have to--”

“I know I don’t; that’s my point. Whatever is happening with John and Izzie, it shouldn’t--it doesn’t change anything here.” 

It feels like they’re back where they started, that last day of school when he’d written ‘sorry’ in his ice cream, only now the word is ‘please’.

“Okay,” she says.

“Yeah?” He sounds relieved.

“Your brother is still an asshole.”

“Agreed. Like, a thousand percent agreed.” Alex smiles, giving her ponytail a tug before he walks backward toward his house. “Ride to school in the morning? Coffee on the way?”

“Sure,” Emma says, and she thinks that she might sound pretty relieved too.

x

“Have you decided where you’re applying?” Mr. Woodhouse asks him one afternoon, after opening with a King’s Gambit. 

“I have it narrowed down, I think. UCLA, Stanford, and Emory.”

“Emory?” he asks, bewildered. “A fine school, but an odd choice. What drew you there?”

The short drive to Florida, to his father. The ache to have a relationship with him, the one he didn’t have these last six years. 

“It’s just a wildcard. Something a little different.”

Mr. Woodhouse hmms and takes another of his pawns.

“I’ve never found ‘different’ to be all that enticing. Eventually it just becomes the same again.”

x

Emma doesn’t really have an opinion about where Alex Knightley should go to school until, one day, she does.

He applies to three schools and receives three acceptance letters, and she’s there when he opens each envelope, blowing a stupidly loud party horn with each “We are pleased to inform you.” She tells him that she isn’t surprised, that it was a given that he’d get in anywhere he wanted.

He looks at her like he didn’t quite believe that was true until she said it.

Then the acceptance deadlines start closing in, and she pulls away. She tells herself that it’s to give him the space he needs to make the decision, and even when he flat out asks her opinion, she hedges.

“All of their school colors complement your skin tone, so you’re safe no matter what.”

It’s the week before finals, and as the freshman class social chair, she has two hundred candy cane grams to wrap by tomorrow. Which means Alex is spending his evening wrapping a hundred candy canes instead of studying for British Lit.

“So I think I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Go to Emory.”

She falters for only a moment before she keeps wrapping.

“That’s great.”

“You think so?”

It’s a challenge more than an actual question.

“Yeah, definitely. It’s a great school, twentieth in the country, one of the leading research universities--”

“Enough, Emma.”

“What? I’m agreeing with you.”

“You know what? Forget it.” He stands, grabbing his jacket off the kitchen table and she runs after him, grabbing the door before he can slam it.

“Hey!” she calls, following him down the driveway. “What was that?”

“Look, you don’t care where I’m going, that’s fine, but just say so. Don’t rattle off the Wikipedia page and pretend like you give a shit.”

He turns to leave and she shoves him in the arm.

“Why do _you_ care so much about what I think anyway?”

“Because! After six years of friendship, I thought you might have some feeling one way or the other about where I spend the next four.”

“Well, I do!”

“So fucking tell me already!”

His voice echoes off the cul-de-sac, and try as she might to blink them back, her eyes gloss with tears.

“Hey,” he says softer. “I’m sorry. C’mere.”

Emma stares at the sidewalk, slowly shifting her weight from one foot to the other, until he gently pulls her into him. She presses the side of her head against his chest, her arms loose and reluctant around his waist, until she sighs and tightens her grip.

“I want you to go to UCLA, but only for selfish reasons, which probably means you shouldn’t go there.”

“Yeah.”

“And you want to go to Emory for good reasons, but I don’t think those good reasons are going to be enough if you’re the only one who wants what you’re looking for.”

She can feel his throat bob as he swallows.

“Yeah.”

“So there. That’s what I think.”

There’s a pause and a long sigh before he speaks.

“Thank you,” he says, resting his cheek against her hair.

x

Alex leaves for Stanford a week after he graduates.

He could have stayed home for the summer, bumming around the beach with Emma, helping his mom clean out the garage, and fine tuning his Sicilian Defense.

But in May, Mr. Woodhouse mentions that his accountant has a firm up north and that they might need an intern. There’s a phone interview and a quick Craigslist search and suddenly he’s got a summer job and a place to live until the dorms open. 

So he packs an entire summer into seven days. He doesn’t get the entire garage done, but enough so that his mom actually has a space to park. His Sicilian Defense needs work, but he comes close enough to winning their last game that Mr. Woodhouse actually has to take a minute to consider his last move, and that feels enough like victory.

And when he’s not packing or cleaning, he’s at the beach with Emma. Sometimes it’s early in the morning, so he can surf while the swell is good, and she sits on a blanket, huddled in his sweatshirt while she does her summer reading. Sometimes they go again in the evening with burgers and milkshakes to watch the sun set. And even though he’ll have the same burgers and see the same sun dip into the same ocean a few hundred miles north, it’s not going to be the same.

His mom says her goodbyes the night before. 

“You were never the one I had to worry about,” she’d said, holding him tight. “And I feel like I missed everything because of that.”

The sun is barely up when he puts the last of his bags in the trunk, and when he closes the hood, Emma’s standing in the driveway, still in pajamas, holding a travel mug.

“Here,” she says, handing it to him. “Straight black, because apparently you’re an ‘adult’ now.”

He inspects the logo.

“Where’d you get this?”

“Your mom went a little merch crazy when you accepted. I have a t-shirt and a license plate frame, too.”

“You sure you can part with this from your collection?”

“Oh no, I want it back,” she teases. “At Thanksgiving.”

He smiles.

“Have a good semester.”

“You too.”

“Will you check on my mom from time to time? Make sure she’s not working too hard?”

“I will.”

“And hey, if geometry gives you trouble, just call me okay?”

“Oh my god, get out of here already,” she laughs, kicking at his tire. “The 5’s going to be a mess.”

He lifts the thermos to her. 

“See you in a couple months.”

“Bye, Alex.”

He pulls out of the driveway just as the sun crests over the block, watching Emma get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, until he turns the corner and there’s only the road in front of him.

x

School keeps him busy. So busy that Alex only goes home once that first year, at Christmas. The Woodhouses are at their cabin in Lake Tahoe, so it’s just him and John and their mom, opening presents and eating cinnamon rolls like it’s any other year. Alex tries to muster cheer for his mom’s sake, but she looks so tired, he’s not sure she notices that no one’s heart is really in it. 

Emma sends him a picture that afternoon from the slopes. She’s wearing ski goggles and a puffy jacket, her cheeks pink from the cold as she holds up the end of the scarf he got her. It’d been an impulse buy, not because she needed it, but because he saw it in a store and remembered her saying once that she wished she lived somewhere that necessitated a cashmere scarf. 

She still doesn’t live anywhere that necessitates cashmere anything, but that didn’t seem like a detail that should stop her from having it. 

Plus he thought the caramel color would look nice with her eyes.

_I love it! Wish you were here. Merry Christmas <3_

It’s not as good as having her home, but it’s close.

x

The firm hires him again for the summer, so by the time he comes home again, it’s Thanksgiving and almost eighteen months since he’s seen her. 

The Woodhouses are hosting dinner this year and everyone’s invited, including John.

“Won’t that be awkward?” Alex asks Emma on the phone the night before.

“Izzie swears it won’t be, on her part anyway. She’s dating some guy from her design cohort, but he can’t make it.”

Alex is relieved for his brother’s sake, and then he remembers that it’s his fault that they’re even having this discussion.

“What about you?” she asks. “Should I set an extra place?”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s not entirely unreasonable to think that you might bring home a lady friend.”

“Don’t say ‘lady friend’. That’s weird.”

“Fine. I was hoping I’d have another excuse to use my calligraphy pen, but.”

He smiles into the phone.

“Maybe at Christmas.”

When they go over for dinner, he finds that he’s nervous. Like he’s twelve all over again, meeting the neighbors, unsure what he’ll find.

They go in without knocking. John and Izzie give each other a lukewarm hug, making painful small talk while she fills water glasses. 

“Where’s--” Alex starts.

“Kitchen.”

His chest feels tight and he doesn’t know why.

She’s kneading pie crust, the sleeves of her sweater dress pushed to her elbows, an apron tied around her waist. Her ponytail’s come loose, wisps of hair falling around her temple, and there’s flour on her nose and cheeks. 

When she sees him, her face splits into a grin.

“Thank god! Come make pie filling.”

“Hi to you, too.”

“I’d hug you, but I don’t want to get flour on your terrible khakis.”

The tightness in his chest unclenches, and he’s really glad to be home.

Dinner isn’t awkward after all. John and Izzie don’t say much to each other, only the basic “pass the stuffing” and other safe spaces, but it doesn’t weigh down the room. Alex sits across from Emma, kicking her under the table when she reaches for Izzie’s wine. She kicks him back, hard, and takes a sip anyway.

After dinner is over and dishes are cleared, John starts a game of football in the backyard. Emma changes into jeans and a Stanford t-shirt that’s too big to be hers.

“Did you ransack my laundry in the half hour since I’ve been home?”

“No, just now.”

He shoots her a look.

“What? I don’t want to get grass stains on mine.”

It’s supposed to just be a touch game, but that lasts all of five minutes before tags turn into tackles. Alex catches a pass from John and heads down the length of the backyard, closing in on the lawn chairs serving as goal posts, when arms circle him from behind and suddenly he’s face first in the grass. He groans, rolling onto his back to find Emma pinning him to the ground, triumphant and beaming.

“Thank god you played basketball,” she breathes. “You’re terrible at this.”

He scoops her up, ball still in his arms, and carries her over his shoulder the last few yards to the end zone, while she pounds on his back in fits of protest and laughter.

He stays late because he owes Mr. Woodhouse a chess game, and when he passes the kitchen on his way out, he finds Emma in a sweatshirt and leggings, her damp hair twisted into a bun.

“What are you still doing awake? The thrill of victory keeping you up?”

“That, and I’m trying to get ahead on homework.”

“On a holiday?”

She shrugs as she fills a kettle with water.

“AP classes don’t stop for holidays. Do you want some tea?”

They settle in on the couch, mugs in hand, and he tells her about Stanford, about how his roommate believes their room is clothing optional and how the leaves actually change color up north. She tells him about school, about being the junior class VP and how useless she feels, how she thought she’d be able to do more.

“It sounds like you’re doing plenty,” he says. “Tell me you’re leaving a little room to have fun.”

“I taught Dad how to use Netflix. That was pretty fun.”

“Seriously. I order you to do something crazy next semester. Something just for you, for fun.”

She smiles at him, sleepy.

“You should come home more often, Alex Knightley.”

Eventually she forgets about homework, and he forgets about going home, and it’s not until the sun starts to peek through the windows that he even realizes they fell asleep. He wakes up with a sore neck and Emma asleep on his arm.

“Emma, hey,” he whispers, nudging her.

“Mmmph.” She burrows further into the crook of his arm. “Too early.”

He maneuvers his way off the couch anyway without waking her and sneaks out the back door. The lights in his house are still off, and he’s just starting to let himself feel relieved when he sees John in the kitchen.

“Good morning.”

“Hey,” Alex says, moving toward the staircase, as if coming in in the same clothes he wore the day before is totally normal.

John follows him to his room.

“You lose track of time?”

“We stayed up late talking and fell asleep. It’s not a big deal. I’m going to take a shower.”

But his brother doesn’t move from his doorway.

“Alex, come on. You know you can’t, right?”

“Can’t take a shower?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“No, I really don’t. It’s not like that.”

John gives him a look. His cheeks go hot.

“It’s _not_. I fell asleep on her couch. Don’t be a dick.”

“She’s sixteen, Alex. I thought she was like a sister or something. Plus, everything with me and Izzie--”

“Hang on.” His voice is loud, and his mom is right across the hall, but he doesn’t care. “You screwing things up with Izzie has nothing to do with me. Or Emma. Or whatever we are, which is just friends.”

John breathes out through his nose, and Alex can tell he’s trying to stop himself from saying something he’ll regret. 

He knows the feeling. 

Finally, John scoffs.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, man. Go take your cold shower.”

John shuts the door behind him, and because Alex really wants to hit his brother, he hits the wall instead.

x

Emma stirs about a half hour after Alex leaves, tip toeing upstairs to her bathroom to wash her face and get the sleep out of her eyes. She still has to do the homework she should have started the night before.

Izzie comes in at the same time she knocks.

“Umm, yes you may enter,” Emma says, patting her face with a towel. “A little privacy maybe?”

“Oh, now you’re worried about privacy.”

Emma glances at her sister, who raises a knowing eyebrow.

“You’re lucky I was the one who came down to get a glass of water and not Dad.”

“I’m sure it looked worse than it actually was. Besides, Dad wouldn’t have cared. It’s Alex.”

“Right.”

Emma waits for an elaboration, but Izzie just looks at her, cautious.

“Emma, if there’s something going on with you guys--”

“ _What_?”

“I’m just saying, you can tell me. I’m okay with it. Not that you need my permission, but things won’t be weird, I promise.”

“No, Izzie, that’s not--no. We’re friends, you know that. Why would you even think that?” 

“Because I’m a person with eyes? He’s cute and sweet and Dad loves him, which is more than I could ever say for John.”

Emma knows objectively that all of these things are true. She knows he’s cute because she, too, has eyes, and knows that he’s sweet because there was a blanket covering her this morning when she’d woken up. She knows that she slept better last night than she has since school started, and that she fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat next to her ear. 

“I know,” she says finally. “But it’s not like that. He’s my best friend.”

Izzie watches her, searching her face for something more, but just nods.

“Okay, well. Coffee? Sweet potatoes for breakfast?”

“Sounds good.”

When Izzie leaves, Emma looks at herself in the mirror. There’s a mark on her cheek from one of the buttons on Alex’s shirt.

She takes a deep breath and washes her face again.

x

Alex goes back to Stanford early.

“I should get a head start on my global business paper,” he tells her the next morning. She’d gone to get the paper just as he brought out his newly folded laundry to the car, and they met in the space between their houses.

“Yeah, that makes sense.” She says, not quite meeting his eyes, and it makes his stomach twist. 

“Oh, I washed your shirt,” she says suddenly, trying to sound a little brighter. “It’s grass-stain-free, I promise.”

“That’s okay, keep it.”

“It’s right inside, I’ll just--”

“Emma.” He stops her from going with a touch of her hand, and she flinches.

“It’s not a big deal. I’ll grab it at Christmas.”

She nods.

“Good luck on your finals.”

“Yeah, you too.”

When they hug goodbye, she pulls away first, and everything inside him is screaming _wait_.

x

They don’t talk after that.

x

Emma maintains a perfect GPA through the rest of her junior year. She’s elected senior class president in a landslide. Her grades are so good that her teachers tell her she could only take the tests and still get straight A’s.

She does the homework anyway.

She doesn’t do anything crazy.

The closest she gets is prom, which she only cares about so far as coming up with a good theme and a decent venue, but Izzie insists that she actually go.

“And not to man the ticket table or oversee decorations. Just go to have fun and dance in a pretty dress and get drunk at the beach after.”

“How about just the first two?”

“The first two plus getting a little tipsy.”

“Fine.”

So she dances in a pretty dress with a very pretty date named Todd who’s captain of the swim team and whose broad shoulders fill out a tux quite nicely. They sneak sips from his flask all night and make out in his truck in the parking lot of the country club. 

She has fun, and now she can check off the prom box of her high school experience, which is basically the whole point of prom in the first place.

As she kicks off her shoes that night and undoes all the trimmings of her hair, she thinks about Alex. He didn’t go to his prom, laid up with a dislocated kneecap after a brutal fall on the court. He never seemed that bothered about missing it--”it’s the most expensive way to have the least amount of fun”--and they spent that weekend marathoning both the British and US versions of “The Office”.

That was a fun weekend, but not as fun as tonight was, she tells herself. The “watch too much TV with your injured best friend” box doesn’t even exist.

x

When Alex graduates from Stanford, he has a job waiting for him. It’s at the same accounting firm where he interned and it’s not so much that they love him as they don’t love the idea of having to train someone new. It comes with benefits and a 401K, even a little bit of travel to San Francisco (but not to L.A., not that it matters).

It’s a good offer. He should take it. He’ll probably take it.

A week before he’s supposed to give them his answer, John shows up at his door with two hiking backpacks.

“Hey.”

“What are you doing here?”

John shrugs.

“Want to go camping?”

Alex wants to slam the door in his face, to ask him where he gets off after over a year of hardly any communication.

“Give me two minutes to change.”

They spend the weekend in Yosemite, hiking, climbing, camping, living on beef jerky and chili from a can. They take a day to hike to the falls and watch the sunset turn the mountains red and gold. 

“I’m sorry,” John says finally.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“I’m sorry for being an asshole.”

“Still not sure which time you’re referring to.”

“Just--” John scrubs a hand over his face. “I’ve been so mad for so long, and it’s poisoned every good relationship in my life. I’ve been shitty to you, to Mom, to--” He doesn’t say her name, but Alex can fill in the blank. “To everyone. And I know I can’t fix everything with one camping trip, but I’m--I’d like to--”

Alex claps his brother on the back.

“We’re good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

John blows out a sigh, staring back out at the forest below them.

“I’m going to try and fix things with Izzie.”

“Like, get back together?”

“I don’t know if I’ll get that lucky, but friends at least. Hopefully. What about you and Emma?”

Alex shakes his head.

“The last time I saw her--hell, the last time I talked to her was that Thanksgiving.”

“Jesus. Is it what I said? If that’s the reason you guys aren’t talking, then add that to my long list of shittiness.”

“No, it’s not. We just sort of...drifted. Nobody’s fault. Maybe it was never an age thing but a being-in-the-same-life-place thing.”

John considers this, taking a long sip from his water bottle.

“Maybe.”

The sun eclipses behind the jutting cliffs and they turn to head back before dark.

“How are you going to get Izzie back?”

“I never said I was going to.”

“Right.”

John smiles. 

“Alright, you really want to hear my plan? I’m going to call her to say ‘hi’. And hope to god she doesn’t hang up on me.”

x

Emma gets early acceptance into UCLA. When people ask, she says she applied to six schools all over the country, when the truth is she applied to one. 

She needs to be close to her father. Even if he didn’t ask, she could see it in his eyes, the thought of both of his girls grown and out of the house, of becoming not just helpless but useless, too. 

Her graduation present is a car, sleek and black but with every safety upgrade available. She has a guess as to who helped her dad pick it out, who would know both her style and her dad’s concerns. The thought makes her stomach clench a little the first few times she drives it to school.

She majors in public relations, not because she particularly wants to, but because there’s no official course of study for taking over the world. Or, at least, the greater Los Angeles corporate culture. 

She attends Rush weekend, where she meets a girl named Annie and they bond over how the sorority thing isn’t really their thing at all. Annie’s an RA majoring in English and loves to bake, and while Emma should be studying for her global econ midterm, she’s in the dorm kitchen instead, helping Annie ice sugar cookies for her residents.

“Okay, pardon me for snooping, but who is this very cute gentleman with his arm around you at the beach?” Annie asks, as they mutually accept each other’s friend requests on Facebook.

Emma doesn’t need to see the picture to know who she’s talking about.

“That’s Alex. He’s my...neighbor.”

“Just a neighbor?” Annie smiles.

Emma traces the moon-shaped scars on her palms. 

_He was my first kiss. He taught me how to shoot a free throw. He was my best friend and I think I may have ruined everything._

“We grew up together,” is all she says instead.

x

John’s stupid plan actually works.

A phone call turns into catching up over drinks, dinner becomes a weekend at the cabin in Tahoe, and six months later, Alex is helping his brother pick out a ring. 

If it were anyone else, he’d be wary. If it were anyone else, Alex would take him out for beers and a cost-benefit analysis.

But it’s John and it’s Izzie, and even if Alex doesn’t believe in the idea of a soulmate, he believes in them.

John grins.

“That’s good, man. Put that in your best man speech.”

Emma’s the maid of honor, of course, and as good as they are at their respective duties, they’re doing a spectacular job of acting like Everything Is Fine around each other. It makes Alex a little sick to think that this is what they’ve become, all small talk and pleasantries while their siblings are getting _married_. They’re going to be bound for life in some weird in-law limbo and the most meaningful conversation they’ve had is over who should be trusted with the rings.

(“Tradition aside, Alex, do khakis even have functional pockets?”

“I’m wearing a tux and you know that.”)

There’s a moment at the rehearsal dinner when he thinks that John may have been right all along. Because she’s wearing a black dress with her hair swept up, laughing at something his mom says, and suddenly he’s so _tired_. Tired of caring about her and feeling like he’s doing something wrong at the same time. 

She catches his eye across the room and he doesn’t look away. She turns back to his mom.

He leaves early. 

x

The wedding is beautiful because Emma made sure that it would be.

She can claim credit for a lot of things, like the candle centerpieces in hurricane vases and the sprigs of lavender crossed over the white linen napkins. But they’re nothing compared to the smile radiating from her sister all night, to the way John won’t stop looking at her with tears in his eyes.

(She tries hard not to think about the way Alex looked at her during the ceremony).

She’s taking a moment to rest her feet, because Jimmy Choo heels and standing don’t really mix, when she sees Izzie headed her way, dragging Alex behind her.

“Okay, you two. The maid-of-honor and best man have to dance. It’s tradition.”

Emma looks between the determination in her sister’s eyes and the quiet panic in Alex’s, and she knows who’s going to win.

“That’s not a tradition.”

“Then I’m making it one. Go.”

It’s a slow song, something old and jazzy, and his hand is warm on her back. 

“I’m sorry,” Alex says, and her heart climbs into her throat. She can’t do this, not here. 

“Alex--”

“That you’re legally related to my brother now.”

She puffs out a laugh, relieved. 

“I appreciate the condolences. You definitely got the better end of this arrangement.”

“That’s for sure. Not that you guys weren’t family before, but now it’s--”

“Official.”

She holds his gaze.

“I’m sorry, too.”

“For what?”

“Whatever happened at Thanksgiving to make you mad at me.”

“Emma...what are you talking about? You’ve been mad at _me_.”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“Because…I don’t know.”

Emma doesn’t know when they stopped dancing, and for once she doesn’t care if other people are staring or what anyone else is thinking, except for the person in front of her.

“Emma?”

“You’re my best friend,” she blurts out. “You know that, right? I’m not sure I ever actually told you that, but you are.”

He looks down, nodding.

“You’re mine, too.”

“So whatever happened or didn’t happen...can we just forget it? Because we’re in this for the long haul now, mister, whether John and Izzie split up again or they totally screw up this baby--”

“Wait, _what_?”

“Oh, yeah,” Emma laughs. “Whoops, on multiple counts. The official story is that it happened on the honeymoon, okay? For Dad’s sake.”

Alex gapes a little longer, disbelieving, before he laughs.

“God, they’re going to be parents?”

“And we’re going to be an aunt and uncle. But we were best friends first, and I don’t see any reason why we can’t be that again, do you?”

A new song starts, fast and loud, and she can actually see him shift, tucking something away inside him. Maybe for later, maybe never, it’s not her place to ask.

“No, I don’t.” He smiles, and holds out a hand.

“One more dance?”

She takes his hand and he sends her into a spin, dizzy and breathless with laughter, for one more dance and then another, until they lose count.

x

**Author's Note:**

> thanks as always to auraispurple for being the best cheerleader and confidant a girl could ask for


End file.
